The Barryfest Chronicles

After hitting the snooze bar three or four times, finally slumping out of bed for a stretch and a bend, and throwing open the drapes in my room, I was greeted with a highly unusual sight this morning.  It was snowing in New Orleans for the first time in four years.  And this was real snow, too, not just the “icy mix” bullshit that hits the north shore every year around this time.  This was the big, fat snow that sticks to foliage and car windshields.  It’s the stuff that gets caught in your hair and that you can catch on your tongue.

Many national news outlets were quick to report that the last time it snowed in New Orleans was the winter before the hurricane season that brought a certain storm that “rearranged” the Crescent City as well as the lives of many of it’s most faithful residents.  But as I noticed ever since I arrived down here, the cumbersome practice looking at life as a series of allegories and metaphors – as opposed to the more classic traditions of kicking back and drinking it in -  is quickly going out of style among locals.

Almost everyone down here can do the math, so that fact that the last dusting of snow was so infamously followed by a historically severe summer is not lost on anyone.  But the first snowfall of the season is the first snowfall of the season, even if it only comes along once or twice a decade.  Headaches about road conditions and traffic – and any momentary confusion about the difference between “correlation” and “causation”  – quickly melt away when you catch a glimpse of a snow-covered palm tree in all it’s bizarrely majestic glory.

And even though the rising afternoon temperature has left amost no trace of the rare splendor of this morning’s blizzard, I’ve still got the same grin on my face I’ve been wearing since the moment I woke up today.

My brother has lived in New York City for almost a year and a half now, and this has given us two or three occasions to engage in the Manhattan version of our favorite shared pastime: walking around a major metropolis without the trappings of a destination or an agenda.

The starting point of our trip is usually determined by where we want to catch lunch and we head out equipped with nothing more than a comfortable pair of shoes and a good sense of direction.  No cabs, no subway, just two dudes who haven’t seen each other for a while running wild on the public thoroughfares of a big city. Read the rest of this entry »

When you’re drunkenly balls deep in a plate of cheese fries at F&M’s on a Thursday night, it is easy to forget that there is a lot more to Louisiana than New Orleans.  This is the “Sportsman’s Paradise” for chrissakes, and I’ve been down here for almost a year and have not actually done anything even remotely “sporting.”

To remedy this, I spent the weekend at Fountainebleau State Park with a crew of brave souls willing to endure some good old fashioned outdoor living in what could easily be the coldest weather any of us will see all year.  Yeah, the winters are pretty mild in southeast Louisiana; but the fact that the mercury doesn’t dip too far below 40 degrees over a 12 month span doesn’t make those 40 degree gusts any toastier when they are whipping across your campsite.

But the trip was a blast, and when I wasn’t gathering firewood, complaining about non-Kosher hot dogs, smoking Natural American Spirits, slugging persey bottles of Charles Shaw, pounding packets of BC, dancing on top of a picnic table to Rilo Kiley, tossing hard-boiled eggs into Lake Pontchartrain, or freezing my dick off after passing out in a tent with no pillow or sleeping bag, I engaged in my new favorite pastime: hypothesizing about whether or not Chinese Democracy is going to be any good. Read the rest of this entry »

I am always amazed when, after hearing that I grew up in Chicago, people aggressively inquire about how I was able to survive the harsh northern winters.  I realize that for someone who has never seen snow and lives in a place where a 40 degree day in January triggers a front page story in The Times-Picayune about the “Deep Freeze” and prompts all the local talking heads to issue dire warnings to all the folks in the Garden District reminding them to bring their exotic plants indoors so they don’t frost overnight, the idea of making through 12 consecutive months in an area with a seasonal climate may seem quite difficult.

But after enduring my first summer here in the Crescent City, I assure can assure you this:  Summer in New Orleans makes Winter in Chicago look like Spring in Faulconbridge.  What, exactly, do people down here think is so hard about a Chicago winter?

You want to know what I think is “hard”?  Driving around in a car that, even with the protection of a sun visor, turns into a convection oven after as little as an hour in a parking lot.  Or how about walking out your front door in the evening after a cold shower and the strategic, liberal application of Gold Bond to various parts of your body, and still sweating through your entire wardrobe before you reach your first stop of the night.  That’s “hard.” Read the rest of this entry »

September is half in the bag and the heat and humidity down here are still turning my brain to mush on a daily basis.  I’ve been told that there is an end in sight, but I sure as shit haven’t caught a glimpse of it.  I will never act like I am going to miss the Chicago winters – the way they arrive out of nowhere with bone-chilling cold and don’t let up until the torrential rains of spring blow through – but I do feel another dose of seasonal affective disorder creeping into my UV-damaged, sweat-soaked psyche.

I think New Orleans is slowly making me insane.  Thankfully, this is not the type of “insane” that is caused by a bad breakup and then fueled with a steady diet of prescription pills and whippets.  No, no, no.  The “insane” I am feeling now is a good thing; maybe the best of things.  It is a liberating and enlightening psychosis that makes the Charles Shaw taste sweeter and the drunken heaters seem more satisfying.

Unlike up north, where even in the dog days of summer a pleasant cool breeze tips you off that day is turning into night and, eventually, that summer is fading into fall, the shitbird weather down here is in dire need of a desk calendar and a fucking Flick-Flack. Read the rest of this entry »

On Saturday, September 6 at approximately 10:45 pm local time I made it back to New Orleans after a week-long odyssey that took me to Meridian, Birmingham, Richmond, Tenafly, New York City and Chapel Hill before I finally returned to the Crescent City.  I would call it a “tour de force,” but during my travels – and the 45 hours I spent in a car over the last week – I became convinced that the term “tour de force” is thrown around way too liberally these days.

I am not quite sure what led me to this conclusion, but when you are on your second 5 Hour Energy shot of the evening and considering whether or not an America’s Best Value Inn right off I-85 in Virginia is far enough away the from the meth country of greater Appalachia to safely rest for three and a half hours without worrying about someone breaking into your car and stealing your checkbook, external hard drive and passport, fact-checking your own internal monologue is not high on your list of priorities.

I think it is best that the term “tour de force” only be used to describe one of two phenomenon:

1. A road trip that spans multiple countries, not just multiple cities
2. A colossal rock epic the likes of Derek and the Dominos’ “Layla,” Electric Light Orchestra’s “Living Thing,” the B-Side of Abbey Road or Spacehog’s “In The Meantime.”

But anyways. I set a new personal record by doing four loads of laundry today, I will be returning to work tomorrow, and it appears that this “Ike” character will be twisting into Texas by the end of the week (of course, he hasn’t gotten a taste of angel dust yet), so I hope that I will not be checking the “Riding the storm out” category in any blog posts in the near future.  And I also hope that the next time I am racking my brain for a new category name, I don’t go with an obvious allusion to a terrible REO Speedwagon song.

All in all, my first evacuation experience was – dare I say – almost entirely positive.  Sure, I was freaking the fuck out for the first 48 hours, and I had to purchase six tanks of premium gasoline at this summer’s outrageous prices, and I ate nothing but fast food for what seemed like an eternity; but this last week has been pretty fun and exciting.  I’m more well-traveled by exactly five US states, I gained a new appreciation for the beauty of major cities in Alabama and I got to see at least six of my favorite people while in New York.

But most importantly, I got caught up on over a month of neglected podcasts while on the road.  In addition to listening to the latest editions of This American Life, Wait Wait… Don’t Tell Me, and The B.S. Report with Bill Simmons, I finally got a chance to dip into the five episodes of The Best Show on WFMU with Tom Scharpling I downloaded after seeing it name-dropped in Vulture a few weeks ago.

It is awesome.  I could easily (and very possibly may) devote an entire post to the genius of Tom Scharpling.  Until then, let me say this: without The Best Show, I do not think any of what went on over the last week would have been possible.

Before it struck Cuba, Gustav was more analogous to a drunken guy trying to amble home.  Sure he may sway one way or another and get lost for a few blocks, but you had a pretty good idea where he was going to end up.  So yesterday afternoon, when the consensus on landfall was a category 4 ripper in the greater New Orleans Metro area, I was freaking the fuck out.

The latest news this morning is that it has weakened and possibly veered southwest of the bullseye that is the Greater New Orleans Metro area.  This surely is good news, but I do not feel like we are out of the woods just yet.  As I said, before he hit the Gulf, ’stav was merely a shitfaced college kid, challenging underclassmen to handstand competitions and losing his wallet in the process.  But him getting a taste of the big, unobstructed part of the Gulf is going to be like smoking a fat sack of PCP, going ape shit and robbing a bank.  So while it is good news that he currently looks like he is going to spare us, over the next 12-24 hours he is going to become as erratic and irrational as a homeless man on a sherm high.  All bets are off, really.

I was not really sure what to expect when I found out I was heading to Birmingham.   Not only have never been there before, but I never planned, wished, thought, or imagined going there.  Ever.  For any reason.  So unlike the cities of Portland, Los Angeles, or Miami, for example (other places I have never been be have considered visiting) I had no ideas or preconceptions about Birmingham as I loaded up my car and headed here as the first stop of my Gustav evacuation.

Actually, I should say the second stop of my evacuation.  I spent Friday night in Meridian with another brave soul who was willing to evacuate early and spend an evening in Mississippi.  Unfortunately, this was the second time I have spent an evening in the haunted house that is the state of Mississippi.  For the sake of brevity, I will sum up my experience in The Magnolia State by saying this:  Fortunately, the people I encountered that did not immediately scare the shit of me were actually relatively pleasant.  I’ll leave it at that.

Gas prices have gone up 20 cents in 12 hours, the jails are being evacuated and the National Guard will be descending on the city at any minute now.

Ever heard of contraflow?  Yeah, me neither.  Until last night night, that is, when someone explained the subject to me in great detail.  While, in theory, it is really not that hard of a concept to grasp, it becomes almost impossible to comprehend when you realize that you’ll BE one of those schmucks stuck in traffic for 12 hours, headed east in the westbound lanes of I-59 with a car load of your most important belongings.

I’ve already had my fair share of “firsts” since I relocated down to the Big Easy.  Since January I have experienced my first Mardi Gras, my first bowl of turtle soup, my first Jazz Fest, my first crawfish boil and my first concert at Tipitina’s, just to name a few.  And there is a chance I will be experiencing another first as early as Saturday morning:  my first hurricane evacuation.

That bastard Gustav has already got 20 50 some bodies on him and is doing a dance around Jamaica at the moment.  While he is still about 5 days away from hitting US soil, the pained and protracted guessing game has already begun.

As the local weathermen poked holes in the NHC’s computer model of Fay less than a week ago, they were brazenly flippant, dripping with a wisdom and confidence that was oddly reassuring.  “That bitch over there?  Fuck her.  Trust me man, she ain’t shit.”

But Fay was sweeping in from the Atlantic, and those predictions were made after she had been bumping around on land for a few days.  This fucker, though, is a horse of a different color.  Any storm that looks like it will be parking in the Gulf of Mexico before it make another run at land gets more local attention sooner, but there is no news to report that does not involve hypothetical modeling and statistical doubt.

No more meteorologists defiantly holding middle fingers up at the weather map superimposed behind them as it shows tropical disturbances A-F shattering apart as they hit terra firma hundreds of miles to our north or east.  Instead, experts are now cautiously sharing their best guesses, reiterating in no uncertain terms how uncertain they are.

In reality, the chances of even having to evacuate are slim, and it would be irresponsible to make any definitive predictions about a storm system that is 1,200 miles away.  And I wish I could keep my cool like those life long New Orleanians, you know, the ones that used to evacuate to the French Quarter and stave off the hurricanes made famous by Mother Nature with the hurricanes made famous by Pat O’Brien.

But for a newbie like me – someone who didn’t spend their childhood hoping for the tropical storms of yore to blow in so classes at Newman would be canceled for a few days and is only familiar with the collective consciousness of post-Katrina New Orleans – with the uncertainty comes a greater level of stress, worry and anxiety as we play a waiting game.

We have to wait to see what happens as Gus gets the chance to regroup and recharge in the widest part of the Gulf, where the warm water runs deeper than it has in the history of the planet and acts like high octane jet fuel in the hands that ruthless son-of-a-bitch off in the distance.  We have to wait; knowing that there is not a single thing anyone can do to change his path or itinerary; hoping that he at least tips his hand soon enough so everyone that needs to react can react accordingly; and praying that if he really wants to test the mettle of a city just out of the blocks on the long road to recovery, that he isn’t out for blood.